She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs; In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.
